The Billionaire's Wife Read online

  For a brief moment I felt ashamed. "Was this just a test?" I asked.

  He tilted his head. "It was what it was. I now know more about you than before. That is enough for me." A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. I wished I could punch it and not get my name in the papers. I wondered if paparazzi were taking pictures of us right now. The thought was so humiliating that I swept my hair over my face and looked down at my plate and its lovingly arranged asparagus.

  "But we are here to talk about the contract, yes?"

  I nodded. "Yeah." The asparagus languished in front of me, begging to be eaten, but I had lost my appetite.

  “Let me see it.”

  With clumsy fingers, I extracted the rewritten agreement from my purse and handed it across the table. Waters leaned back and began to flip through it as though he had all the time in the world. Ms. Gray had highlighted the changes in the contract to make them easy to find, and he lingered over each one, sipping his wine as he did so. Occasionally he glanced up at me.

  At last he sat back. “None of these changes are very drastic,” he said. “Are you sure this is all you want?”

  I'd been staring at my asparagus salad, trying to ignore him and make a decision about what part of my bounty to attack first, but at this I looked up in surprise.

  “I, uh, didn't know I could ask for more.”

  He speared his tomato and popped it into his mouth. “You may ask for anything you like. Whether or not I will grant it is another matter entirely.”

  God, I hated him.

  Thoughtfully, he chewed and swallowed. “Your changes are minimal. The major changes appear to be a requirement to revisit and renew the contract after one year. That is fine with me. And you wish for the medical clause to go into effect immediately upon signing.” For a long moment, he regarded me, then signaled a passing waiter who snapped to attention.

  “May I borrow a pen?” he asked.

  The blood drained from my face. Surely he didn't mean to...?

  But he did. The waiter whipped a ballpoint pen from his pocket, and right in front of me Anton Waters initialed and signed each clause and page, and then signed and dated it.

  He pushed it across the table.

  I stared at it.

  It stared back at me.

  I willed it to go away.

  It didn't.

  I reached out and drained my glass of wine.

  “Are you not prepared to sign today?” Waters asked.

  I swallowed. “I...” My thoughts ricocheted inside my head. All it would take was a flourish of a cheap Bic ballpoint and my life would change. I would be bound to marry this man that I didn't even know, my father would be back in business, and my mother would be in chemo.

  The world darkened at the edges of my vision. I tried to take a deep breath, but it seemed like something heavy had settled on my chest.

  “Miss Dare?”

  A movement across from me caught my attention. Waters had risen from his seat.

  I didn't know how to react, but then I felt the booth dip and he slid in next to me, looping an arm around my shoulders, shielding me from the rest of the dining room.

  God, he felt good, warm and strong. If circumstances had been different, and if he had been less of a douche, I might have enjoyed the intimacy. I might have been able to lean into him and taken comfort from his strength. I might have been able to wholeheartedly let him take my burdens from me.

  But all it did was make me skittish. My pulse picked up the pace.

  "Let's not pretend," he said. Reaching out, he poured me another glass of wine. "You need me, and I want you."

  "You don't want me," I said. "You want a woman who needs you."

  "To me, those are one and the same at the moment." He lifted the wine and brought it toward me, urging me to drink. I took the glass from his hand and set it on the table.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head. "I like to watch you fight it," he said. "Just like I liked watching you finger yourself in my elevator while you thought of me."

  Security cameras. Of course.

  Mortification swept over me. I stiffened and he leaned in. His lips brushed over my ear. "You are beautiful when you abandon yourself."

  "Don't feel so smug," I snapped, even as he moved his lips to the spot just below my earlobe. "I haven't gotten laid in six mo—ooh..."

  Anton Waters pressed his hot, soft mouth against my hammering pulse.

  I melted under him, my body dissolving into shivers. Panting, I put my hands on the table, gripping the table cloth tightly as I struggled to keep myself from touching him back. My fingers itched to feel him. My mouth watered at the thought of tasting him.

  "Our marriage would be mutually beneficial,” he said, breath ghosting over my skin. “I think you might even enjoy it."

  No, no, no, no, no... "No one would enjoy being forced into sex for money,” I ground out.

  He smirked against my throat and swept my hair aside. Lightly, gently, he placed lingering kisses down my throat and up over my neck.

  "I would never force you. You will always want it."

  My heart twisted in my chest. I know, I know, I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to admit it.

  His breath was hot on the back of my neck. "Do you think I won't be able to please you? Is that it?" he whispered, and I felt his words sink into my skin, into my bones, zipping down my body, electrifying me. I wanted him so badly, but how could I tell him that obtaining orgasms with him was the least of my worries?

  His leg pressed against mine. The heat of his body seeped through the fabric between us and I wished I'd been more prudent and worn pants instead of a skirt. His fingers alighted on my thigh and began to trace shivering patterns across my skin. Lips and tongue played with the sensitive nape of my neck, and his hand drifted down my arm, fingertips skimming the outside swell of my breast. Between my thighs, I felt myself grow hot and slick.

  "I could make you come right here in this restaurant," he murmured, and his voice was hoarse. "Right in front of everyone. I'll make you scream."

  His words set me on fire. "I'd like to see you try," I whispered back. Bravado. My voice shook.

  But it wasn't a lie.

  Pulling back, he graced me with another one of his faint smiles. "You are the perfect woman for me," he said. "Defiant, with nowhere to run. You'd rather die on your feet than live on your knees." His fingers drifted up my leg, up under my skirt. I swallowed around the lump in my throat.

  "I'd rather live on my feet than die on my knees, thanks," I told him.

  He laughed, then looked shocked that he'd done so. I saw him forcibly recover, but I had no time to bask in my tiny victory. One long, hot finger brushed against the soft mound above my pussy, robbing me of thought.

  "You may live on your feet," he whispered, "but I will bend you over and fuck you all the same."

  And he slipped under the table.

  It was so quick, so unexpected, that I was still staring at the spot where he had been and trying to muster the presence of mind to react when I felt his large, hot hands on my knees.

  My god. He was kneeling under the table, hidden by the long table cloth. He was going to—going to—

  I wish I could say I put up a fight. But my thighs parted at the slightest pressure from his hands, and I opened to him.

  He pushed my skirt up, rearranging the table cloth so that it fell across my lap and hid my sudden indecency from the rest of the lunch crowd. All around me conversation carried on as usual. Glasses clinked, knives scraped against forks, someone tittered at an amusing joke. And Anton Waters gently pushed the crotch of my panties aside, parting the slick folds there.

  I felt the rough tip of one finger poised at my entrance. Then it slid up, up, up, almost touching my clit, but he only grazed it before sliding back down, pressing against my waiting channel. I was biting my lip so hard I could almost taste blood. Up his finger came again, gently teasing me, then down it went. Up, and down. Up and d
own. Up, and down again, each time pressing ever so slightly into me.

  It was torture. My cheeks burned. I wanted to reach down under the table and slam his face against my pussy. I wanted to leap up and kick him. I didn't dare do either of those things. I knew I was soaking through my panties and probably staining my skirt, but I couldn't bring myself to push him away. My whole existence was his finger and my aching cunt. The restaurant faded around me and I closed my eyes, trying to maneuver my hips into his finger yet again. I needed him to touch my clit. I was going to die without it.

  But he didn't. Instead, he paused again at my entrance, and I could feel his gaze on me, staring straight into my quivering folds. I was exposed to him. All my defenses were stripped away, need spiraling out of control.

  Slowly, surely, one long finger entered me. I convulsed around him.

  “Miss?”

  Oh no. No, no, no. Not now. Go away...

  “Miss, is there anything I can bring you?”

  I forced my eyes open to see the waitress hovering at the side of the table, looking at me curiously. Surely she knew what was happening. It had to be obvious.

  The finger inside me curled, and my toes curled along with it.

  “No!” I said. “Nothing. Thanks!”

  She looked at me strangely. “Your lunch will be out shortly. There's a bit of a backup in the kitchen.”

  Don't care! I wanted to scream.

  I felt Waters move under the table. Rough cheeks scraped over my tender inner thighs.

  Oh god. No, don't, don't you dare.

  “Ma'am?” the waitress said. “You don't look very well.”

  “Just a hangover,” I blurted. “Need some hair of the dog.” I reached for the wine glass I had rejected, desperate to hide my cresting need.

  Anton Waters sucked my clit into his mouth, scraped his tongue over it, and I came.

  My hand flailed against my wine, knocking it over, but I barely even noticed. All my determination not to scream flew out the window, but I had the barest shred of self-control left to bury my head in my arms and shriek into the table. My whole body shuddered and stars burst against my eyelids as he suckled on my clit, curling his finger inside me. My legs curled over his shoulders, pulling him to me as I shook with a pleasure so acute it was almost pain. The soft, vague roughness of his tongue pulled my clit further and further into his mouth, and pulled me along with it. I felt as though I might melt where I sat, might fall into his mouth and be devoured, and I wouldn't care.

  And he didn't stop, even as I came down from the shuddering heights, dragging moans from my mouth. I felt the eyes of the entire restaurant on me as I came, and the coarse humiliation slid against the pleasure, sharpening it like a whetstone, until it cut like a blade.

  Waters retreated, and I felt his absence like a bruise. At last I was able to raise my head. I forced myself to meet my waitress's eyes.

  We stared at each other for a long moment. I knew she knew. And she knew that I knew that she knew.

  I did the only thing I could think of. I pressed a hand to my mouth and clutched my stomach with the other. “I think... Mr. Waters went to the restroom,” I gasped. “Could you... get him for me?”

  Her eyes wide in terror, the waitress nodded frantically and fled the scene of the crime. I didn't dare look around to see who else had noticed me just have the most powerful orgasm of my life.

  After a moment, Anton Waters popped up on the other side of the booth, looking cool and unflappable, as though he had just gone to retrieve an errant fork. The only thing that gave him away was the slickness of his lips, wet with my juices, and his green eyes, watching me like a tiger. I met his gaze, still panting, then pulled my skirt down. My thighs rubbed against my pussy, sending aftershocks through my body.

  For a long moment, we stared at each other. He glanced down at the contract by his elbow and rescued it just in time from the spreading red wine.

  Wordlessly, he pushed it toward me, then held the pen out to me.

  “This is your call,” he said. He studied me with eyes hooded by desire.

  I hesitated one final time. Then I grabbed the pen and signed my life away.

  Chapter Three:

  Bartered Bride

  “I'm an idiot,” I moaned. “A complete and utter idiot.”

  My best friend Sadie cocked an eyebrow and sucked on her cigarette. “I don't think that's ever been in doubt,” she told me. “You're not exactly the sharpest marble in the bag, Lis.”

  “You're so mean,” I told her. Then her words sank in. “Wait, marbles aren't sharp.”

  She smirked at me and blew a smoke ring.

  “That's even meaner,” I complained. “My life is ending and you don't even care.”

  Sadie rolled her eyes. “Your life isn't ending. You're just marrying some guy for his money.”

  I threw a pillow at her, which she dodged. “I am not.” I was marrying him to save my mom. And also because he seemed to have found my Orgasm Button. I'd told Sadie the first part, but not the second. It was too humiliating.

  Tapping ash into the tray on my table, Sadie shrugged. “There's nothing wrong with marrying a guy for his money,” she said. “I'd do it.”

  “You'd do a lot of things.”

  “Shit yeah, I would. Besides, your little noble I'm so poor! act isn't getting you anywhere in your career, is it?” She gestured at the corner of my apartment where my latest creation languished, half-finished until I could procure the funds necessary to buy more clay. I'd had several shows, all at small galleries, and done well, but the bigger stuff required more money than I had, and more hustle than I was ever going to have after working ten hour days at the bar. I hated to think it, but Sadie might be right: marrying Waters would be good for my career.

  And my sex life.

  If only it didn't seem so tawdry.

  “So when's the big day? What do I have to wear as your maid of honor?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “He said it was going to be soon. I don't actually have a lot of say in it. He's taking me out to a quote-unquote specialty boutique in like an hour or something to pick out my dress and, uh. Underwear.”

  That got Sadie's attention. “He's picking out your underwear?” she said. “What kind of marriage is this going to be?”

  I glared at her. “The exact sort of marriage you'd expect from someone who wanted to buy a wife.”

  She shook her head. “You can't even cook,” she said. “He could have gotten a much better wife from Russia. And she'd be, like, way hotter.”

  “Yeah, fuck you, too,” I said. “Now you're definitely not going to be my maid of honor.” If I was even allowed to have one. Waters hadn't mentioned anything about friends or family yet and it was making me uneasy. I'd never been the sort of girl to dream about my wedding or pick out my bridal colors when I was thirteen or whatever, but I would have expected a little more leeway in the planning. As far as I knew, it was being 'taken care of.' And since I didn't really feel like a bride, I had to admit that it was kind of a load off my mind to just let things happen instead of struggling to assert myself in the face of... well, in the face of Anton Waters.

  Sadie stubbed out her cigarette and got up. “Well, just make sure you don't forget the little people when you're rich and on the cover of all the tabloids, okay?” Sadie was one of my artsy friends as opposed to one of my bar friends, though she worked with paint and 'mixed media'—meaning trash she found in Central Park.

  “Sure,” I said. “You wanna be one of my hangers-on? I'll be taking applications through the honeymoon.”

  “I'd love to,” she said. “But you have to promise, or I'm leaking this to everyone we know.”

  Fear drove through me and I sat up. “Sadie!” I said.

  She held up her hands and laughed. “I know, I know. This was all in confidence. I promise. I just have to not get drunk between now and when you get married.” She appeared to think about this for a moment. “So it had better be in the next twenty-four hours.�
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  “Ugggh!” I said. “Out. Go to work.”

  “Right,” she said. “Not all of us are lucky enough to marry money.”

  “Out!”

  She laughed as she exited my apartment and closed the door behind her, leaving behind the smell of cigarette smoke and her thick, heavy perfume.

  I sat down on my futon and closed my eyes, trying to relax. Usually after I saw Sadie, I felt better about things.

  This time, it didn't work. I still had that gut clenching fear crouching inside me. I sat up and took a few deep breaths and thought about calling my mother. I hadn't spoken to her yet, and I didn't know how to broach the subject of my pending nuptials. She still hadn't told me she was sick, but I could hear it in her weary voice whenever we spoke. The distance between us seemed to have yawned into a chasm almost overnight. Ever since my father showed up at my door, I hadn't been able to talk to her like I usually did, even though we had always talked, ever since I was a little girl. My father's constant betrayals had pushed us together, and she was my dearest confidant—or at least she had been.

  Now she didn't even know I was getting married, and I found I didn't want her to know until the last second. Anton Waters was a rich jackass, just like my father. In fact, he was even more of a rich jackass. I couldn't bear the thought of her thinking I was making the same mistake she had—she was the one who had told me to flee our toxic household and not look back—and I couldn't even tell her that I was the one paying for her chemo treatments, since she didn't want me to know about them...

  Shit. This was all my father's doing. He had a knack for screwing everyone else up just by existing. If he hadn't been such a shitty person none of this would be a problem.

  I rubbed my hand over my face and sighed, glancing at my phone. Only about thirty minutes until I was due out front for the car and I hadn't even had a shower yet. I knew I should get up, but I couldn't. I sat on my futon for probably ten more minutes before I finally found the motivation to stand up, and then I had to rush through a shower and makeup before throwing on clothes—less theatrical than my prostitute get-up I'd tried over lunch three days ago—and clomping downstairs to find the car already waiting for me and Zachary standing by the back seat, looking bored.